Whispers in the Dark
by craazy4ever
Summary: AU... with new charecters and new flashbacks. Claire was kidnapped; do we really know why? What if it happened again? What's the agenda? - ON HOLD.
1. Chapter One

(This is set just before Jack, Kate, and Sawyer were taken by the Others. My timeline is a bit slower than the show's, and it doesn't follow any real timeline for any character besides Claire.

Oh and by the way, I feel the need to point out a few things. The fact that Juliet had some kind of implant in Claire that made her sick so that Juliet had to inject something into her is PURELY coincidental. I had no idea that they were going to do that. I don't spy on the writers in their studies.

I'll put the original writing dates on every chapter. This one was written in the beginning of October, 2006 and edited for fanfiction. net /a in February and March of 2008. The storyline has not been changed; it has simply been fixed to be more readable.

The basic idea is that Claire was really sick for a while and not really getting better, so Jack made her stay in the Hatch until he could figure out what was wrong. The obvious answer was the vaccine that Charlie had given Claire earlier. Only in this story, the Others had managed to get a single different kind of vaccine to Claire that was absolutely meant for her. Jack tried it on himself before he let Claire use it, and the only immediate effect it had on him was to make him feel better than he had in years. So needless to say, Claire was finally getting better—but Jack still insisted that she stay in the hatch for various reasons that made sense at the time.

This story starts one night when she's still in the hatch, almost totally recovered.)

_Ava, Ava, Ava… I need to get out of here. I can't begin to tell you how tired I am of seeing this room all day. They won't let me explore the hatch, and I'm not even supposed to leave without an escort. Like I'm going to pass out again… I'm not. I'm fine, really, I am. What could anyone possibly have against me stepping ten feet outside the hatch? _

"Good God," Claire muttered, putting her pen down for a moment "I can't believe I'm actually arguing with someone who can't talk back. This is rediculous..."

It wasn't like she had a choice though; no one else would listen to her, because whatever Jack said went without question. At least as long as medicine was involved.

She could argue with Ava because she knew what her sister would say... if she was here.

The repeated droning _tick, tock_ from the clock on the wall was the only sound in the room, and it was mind-numbing. Her eyes began to grow heavy as she stared at the half empty page on her diary. If she didn't finish this now then it would have to wait until tomorrow. Claire forced herself to concentrate; she put her pen back to the paper and began to finish her entry.

_I'm going to do it. I'm getting outside, even if it's only for a few minutes. I think I've figured out the best time to try…. I guess we'll see though, won't we. In the meantime, I'm taking a nap. I'll let you know how it works out later._

Claire closed her diary and carefully slipped it into her backpack. She glanced at the clock on the wall, wishing for the hundredth time that it could be digital so that it would at least be silent. She had exactly an hour to sleep, if she could actually _get_ to sleep. The siren (she didn't know what else to call it) would go off in a little over an hour. Her plan was to get out before John had to punch buttons on the computer and, as always, timing was everything.

Unfortunately, falling asleep would be the easy part. Claire hated to admit it, but she still felt rather weak at times. She told herself that it was probably from worrying too much. She worried about everything, though she usually didn't show it.

As though on cue, Aaron moaned in his sleep. Claire heard him across the hall and went to check on him. Once satisfied that he was alright, she went back to her room and finally forced herself to sleep. Her body wanted to, but her mind did not.

Claire had set a mental alarm clock, but was surprised when she actually woke up an hour later. Apparently they worked after all. She got up, stretched, and grabbed a sweater that was hanging on the back of a chair as she went to leave the room. She was pulling the garment over her head as she reached the door.

This station didn't seem to be as big as the one she had been held at when Ethan was still around, but the layouts were similar enough. She managed to find her way to the computer room without having to ask for directions.

"John," she called as she walked into the room "you in here?"

Her voice sounded strange as it echoed off the walls. There was no answer. She tried again. "John?" This time she saw him when she looked around. He was thoroughly engrossed in a book—he didn't even look up when she was standing in front of him.

"What is it, Claire?" Locke asked, still reading, He almost sounded mechanical, but there was also a touch of annoyance to his tone that made her feel like a trespassing child. She wasn't a child and of course she wasn't trespassing. It wasn't like he owned the place on any account. But he did, in a way. He was very protective and didn't really like having anyone else man the computer. He had discovered this station and now felt that it was his personal responsibility to do whatever it was that the people before him had done.

Still, he had no right to treat her like she was invisible, like she didn't belong.

"The light in here is awful for reading," she said dryly "you should be worrying about your eyesight."

"You came to give me a lecture?" He still wouldn't look at her "Go back to your room. The light in this room is fine." It wasn't.

"I came to tell you that I'm leaving." Claire said, getting to the point. She finally had his attention, he wasn't reading anymore. "Well, not leaving-leaving, just stepping outside for a few minutes. I might walk around for a little, but I won't go far."

"Claire, Jack said--" Locke couldn't finish his sentence, she cut him off.

"Don't tell me what _Jack_ said!" she snapped, her temper getting the better of her. "Since when does his opinion matter to you anyway?"

She knew it didn't. But it was his argument, the best one he had against her. It wasn't going to work, and the sooner he saw that the better.

"I'm not asking for your _permission_, John. I'm telling you: I'm leaving. I'll be back in here, twenty minutes tops."

Claire unclenched her fists and remembered to breathe. She hadn't realized that her hands were clenched until they began to hurt. "I know what Jack said," she began more calmly "but I also know what I need. He isn't always right." Everyone always thought he was--well, almost everyone. He _had_ given them plenty good reason to, so far.

She was waiting for the verdict. She didn't know why, but she was.

"Okay." Locke finally said. "Okay. Twenty minutes, Claire. Go wander around, but stay in sight of the hatch." Twenty minutes would get her off his back, he thought. As long as she stayed close by nothing was going to happen.

Claire didn't thank him—that would have been admitting that she wanted his permission when she really didn't. She simply nodded and left the room.

Hurley was in the kitchen scoping out the refrigerator and the cupboards. He wanted to know how much room he had in the kitchen for the food that was in the pantry. He had asked Claire if she wanted to help him with it earlier and she had declined. She felt bad, knowing that he was only trying to include her--something that others were less inclined to do. Especially now.

"Morning, Hurley," Claire said lightly, stepping to the refrigerator, "Making progress?"

It was later in the afternoon, but she hoped he didn't notice. Not that it mattered, it was all just a distraction, anyway.

"Uh... good morning?" Hurley turned and stared at her. Something in her voice threw him off, it just wasn't right--and it certainly wasn't "morning", either. "What are you doing?" He asked, forgetting to answer her own question.

Claire had taken a bottle of water and a banana and was now heading for the door.

"I'm just going for a little walk, Hurley. Nothing to worry about." she answered, keeping her voice bright as she reached the door. She wasn't about to turn back now.

"Dude, should you be doing that?" Hurley took two uncertain steps toward her. "I mean, I thought Jack said--"

"_Never mind_ what Jack said!" Claire spun to face him, glaring daggers in his direction "It doesn't matter. I'm walking out this door, and no one is going to stop me!"

She almost stomped her foot in frustration as she pushed the crash bar and opened the door. Claire opened her mouth to say something more, and then decided against it as John's voice came from down the hall,

"It's alright, Hugo, let her go."

Hurley stepped back, still clearly confused. He was sure that this wasn't the right decision, but what was he going to do? What would Charlie say if something happened to her? What would everyone think? He stopped himself. Nothing's gonna happen, she'll be fine. "_Nothing's gonna happen_." He repeated as Claire disappeared out the door.

Claire walked quickly and didn't once look back. There was such a freedom in the air, she could feel it as she walked along, humming cheerfully as she went.  
She went on through the jungle until she realized that she had gone farther and longer than she intended. Sighing, Claire cracked the seal on the bottle and took a long drink.

On one hand, she'd have to hurry if she was going to get back before it got too dark to see--she hadn't marked her trail at all, and her sense of direction wasn't something she was too proud of. On the other hand though, she wasn't really in a hurry. Scripting her apology to Hurley wasn't exactly something to look forward to, either.

Something in the shrub started moving nearby and caught Claire's attention. She stopped immediately, watching the motion. Images of polar bears and creepy monsters flashed in her mind and she shivered, shaking them off.

"V-Vincent?" she called instinctively, "is that you?"

The yellow lab was forever showing up in places that he was least expected to be... maybe he had followed her.

"C'mon boy, come here." Claire called, relieved when the dog came up from behind the green. "You shouldn't go around scaring people like that. At least bark or something so we know it's you." She spoke to him as though he understood her, and perhaps he did because he barked once or twice as she scratched him behind the ears.

"Would you like to tag along? I wouldn't mind the company."

Vincent barked again and took off running through the jungle.

"Guess not." Claire muttered quietly. "That dog was extremely clean for all the--what the hell?!"

Someone had thrown a sack over her head and someone else was quickly tying up her hands.

Claire's first instinct was to scream, but one of them clapped a hand over her mouth through the sack and whispered in her ear "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

She stopped and nodded, realizing that whoever was talking had a gun to her back.

The hand released her head and moved to her arm and pushed a little, forcing her to walk.

"Who-who are you?"

Claire asked feebly as she stumbled along.

"Jest hush up and walk, ma'am. We don't have the answers to your questions." One of them said as the barrel of the gun was nudged a little as a warning.

Claire couldn't walk any farther though. She was still weak from being ill and the strain and stress now were too much--she fainted.

"Bloody hell," one complained, "we'll have to carry her."

"Oh hush up and help," said the other, "This was your idea in the first place."

Still grumbling they picked her up and carried her several miles until they reached their destination.


	2. Chapter Two

When Claire woke up several hours later, she was alone

When Claire woke up several hours later, she was alone. The room she was in was poorly lit—the light in the ceiling flickered, threatening to give out at any moment. She had to blink several times to allow her eyes to adjust so that she could see the room clearly.

It was a fairly decent sized room, smaller than the average motel room—but just right for a single person. The furnishings were simple; a bed, a comfortable-looking chair, a small night table, and a dresser made up the furniture, while a wood-framed clock on the wall, a framed painting on the opposite wall, and a lamp on the night table completed the decoration.  
There were no windows in this room, and there was only one door. So despite the overall friendly, inviting appearance of the room, Claire couldn't help but feel like she was in a cage. It was homey, but still a cage nonetheless.

Claire sat up slowly, her head throbbing with a dull pain. She reached for the lamp and turned it on. It wasn't perfect, but at least it was enough to make the annoying flicker less noticeable than it had been.

The clock read: 3:45 A.M., and Claire knew that she should have at least tried to go back to sleep. But she felt that she was too awake to do that. And besides, she had some exploring to do… if there was anything to explore in this room. She didn't dare try the door, thinking that maybe there was a guard posted behind it. That thought was unnerving.

Looking around didn't take that long—there wasn't much to find.

There were a few books in the top dresser drawer, nothing that caught her immediate attention; the others contained various sets of clothing and some personal items. Claire couldn't help but wonder of her captors had easy access to a supermarket and the mall. And if they did… why the hell were they still on the Island?

Claire flicked the lights off and sat on the edge of the bed. She would sit in the dark until someone came for her… or until she fell asleep again—which ever came first.

Sleep came first, but she wouldn't know it until she woke up.

Joe knocked on the door as he opened it. "Miss Littleton?"

He flipped the light switch on the wall and frowned when the fluorescent lights flickered and then dimmed. "Someone'll have to fix that later." He muttered quietly.

Claire stared at him blankly for several moments, unable to find her voice.

"Well don't just lie there," he said uncomfortably, "It's breakfast time."

Joe wasn't a bad man, necessarily. He was just doing his job, for the greater good of mankind. But even as he insisted it was right, he still had his doubts. Maybe there was a better way of doing things. Either way, he was glad that it wouldn't be his concern after a day or two.

Claire got up and silently followed him out the door and down the hall.

"There's a bathroom over here," Joe said, indicating to one of the various doors that connected to the corridor they were in, "Make sure you note which room it is, 'cause you won't be allowed in any other room but your own."

"Thanks." Claire said, finally managing to find her voice. There were a thousand questions she wanted to ask him, but she supposed that it might be wiser to wait. Joe didn't exactly seem like the guy who would in charge, and therefore, he probably didn't have all the answers she was looking for… if any.  
She tried to pay attention to what he was saying; only grasping half of it as her thoughts wandered. He sounded like a tour guide with a slightly southern accent and a mixed manner of speaking, but with less enthusiasm than the average guide… if that was possible. She couldn't help but wonder if anything he was saying would matter in the long run.

"…And this is where you'll come to have your meals every day." Joe continued as they turned another corner and came into the dining area. He motioned to one of several tables that had been arranged in the large room, "Grab a seat. I'll be back with a tray. I hope you like eggs and toast." He disappeared behind the counter into the kitchen, and Claire could have sworn he was humming as the door closed behind him.

She picked a table that was almost in the middle of the room and sat down, taking a few minutes to observe her surroundings.

The room was almost designed like a very small school cafeteria. A count of fifteen tables, with a half a dozen chairs around each of them, were arranged neatly; with enough room between them for people to get around comfortably. Claire had to wonder if they held meetings in this room… it would have made sense, after all.

"Like I said, I hope you like scrambled eggs and toast." Joe said as he emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray that was furnished with eggs, toast, jam, and a glass of orange juice. "It's not much," he said as he put the tray down, "But I don't cook. This is as far as I go."

Claire nodded appreciatively and attempted a smile. She was confused, to say the least. Yesterday he had been a party in her kidnapping, threatening her with a gun. Today he seemed to be kind as a lamb. Or that was how it appeared.  
She picked up a fork and slowly began to eat.

"Don't say much, do you." Joe stated, sitting down across from her. "I s'pose that's to be expected." He fiddled with his thumbs for a few moments as he watched her. "I—"

"What the hell do I have to do to get a decent cup of coffee around here?!" An angry voice came loudly from out in the hall before its owner stormed into the room. "I haven't had a good cup in four days. Four days! Joe, didn't Elaine show you how to make it?"

"You might make it yourself, Martin." Joe suggested, "Yeah, she showed me how to make it. But no one makes it as good as she does."

"Obviously." Martin replied, agitated. "She's supposed to be here this afternoon, right?"

"She's here now, in the kitchen. She only got here a little bit ago." Joe explained quickly.

"What?! Why wasn't I told?"

"Well, I thought I'd wait until you came up. " Joe said apologetically. "She needed to get her things settled in, anyway."

"Alright." Martin seemed to calm down a little with that answer.  
"How's your breakfast?" He asked, addressing Claire for the first time. His sharp dark eyes

"It's fine." Claire said quickly, glancing at Joe as she said it. The food _was_ fine, but the only reason she had answered was because Martin's tone demanded an answer. She didn't dare make him more upset than he already seemed to be.

Martin smiled slightly, "Well at least one of us thinks so."

"He isn't very pleasant, is he?" Claire asked after Martin had vanished behind the kitchen door.

Joe looked up at her quickly. He was surprised—Claire hadn't said more than two words all morning. "Well…" He looked down, almost worried about talking behind his partner's back. "I guess he doesn't come off as a nice person. But he's just doing what he has to do. And it's my fault that he's out of sorts this morning—with the coffee and all."

Claire shook her head as she finished what was on her plate. "I'm sure it's not really your fault. He probably just has an over-developed set of taste buds. "

Joe grinned broadly at this statement—he couldn't help it. "You know something? I think you might just be right."

"Elaine?" Martin called as he walked straight through the kitchen into an area that had been converted into a small but comfortable one-person apartment.

"In here, darling." The laid back reply came from around the corner.

Elaine was curled up in a chair, pouring over one of her favorite novels. It wasn't an unusual sight at all—her sitting with her head rested on one side of the chair and her legs swung up carelessly over the other; she was almost completely oblivious to anything else that was going on. And when _wasn't _she reading_._

Martin came and rested his hands on the back of the chair. "Elle, think you could get me a—"

"A cup of coffee?" She finished for him, still reading the well written lines in her book—or pretending to. It was hard to concentrate on any book when Martin was talking.

"Yes." He said, his brow rising with surprise. "How'd you know?"

Elaine smiled, "Lucky guess. Joe couldn't make a good cup of coffee if his life depended on it." She said it with a tone that indicated that she rather enjoyed the fact.

Martin almost criticized her for being uncharacteristically mean, but he couldn't.  
"That would be the understatement of the year."

Elaine looked up at him, her green eyes laughing. "It's already on the stove, Martin. And I think there's toast in the warmer if you're hungry. I didn't have time to make anything."  
Well, that wasn't entirely true—she just hadn't wanted to upset Joe by sending him out of the kitchen. She knew he tried so hard to do things right.

"Thank you." Martin was already in the kitchen, and he sounded rather relieved.

"Besides, Marty," Elaine said, adjusting herself with a motion that sent her flowing auburn waves cascading down the side of the chair, "I know you better than anyone else here does. There isn't much that you'll get past me."

"Isn't there?" Martin asked, sipping his coffee as he sat down across from her.

Elaine laughed as she shook her head. "Nope."

Martin's expression became stern as he said "Well I guess I'll just have to do a better job of watching myself, eh?" He continued, clearly teasing—though by the look on his face no one else would have guessed—"I can't have you knowing everything. It's bad for business."

"Well…" Elaine began slowly, with the same serious tone, "I guess I don't know _everything_ about you—or I didn't. Because today I learned that coffee withdrawal gives you some manners."

"Hey!" He exclaimed, surprised, "Don't you dare get any ideas." He shook his head and sipped his coffee again, muttering, "Unbelievable."

"You started it." She insisted, laughing. Elaine sat up properly in the chair and changed the subject. "You didn't sleep much last night, did you?" She asked, studying him closely. "Really Martin, you look terrible."

"And you look like an angel." Martin replied, teasing edging on sarcasm. He knew she was right though, and, knowing Elaine, she wouldn't let it go. "Alright, I'll see if I can get a few hours in before this afternoon."

"Good. I made your coffee decaf, just incase. "

"I noticed." He said, "But it's still better than anything Joe made, believe me."

"He's going back tomorrow, right?" Elaine asked, ignoring the last remark.

Martin nodded** "**Yeah, bright and early."  
He stood and went to put his cup in the kitchen, "It's too bad he can't stay."

Elaine wasn't sure if he meant it or not, so she left it alone. "Finished your coffee?"

"Yes. And now I'll go get some sleep—because you wouldn't have it any other way—"

"If you say 'Mother' I'll hit you!" Elaine threatened, interrupting him. "And no, I won't have it any other way."

Martin laughed at her as he bent to kiss her forehead "I really am glad that you're here." He said. It was as close as he would get to an apology of any kind.

"I know." She said. "Now off with you." She shooed him out of the room with out moving from her seat.

He went without saying anything more, and Elaine sighed when he was gone. She picked up her book and set it down again—she couldn't read it. There was too much to think about… the reality of it all.


	3. Chapter Three

**

* * *

**

To clear a few things up: I know that Claire's mum's name is Carol on the show and that she was never married (as far as they let on), and that Claire doesn't actually have a sister. However, most of this story was written long before we knew anything about Par Avion, and I was forced to improvise.  
That is all.

* * *

Claire stared at the blank sheet of paper for several minutes, wondering what to write and where to start. She had worked up the nerve to ask Joe for a notebook and a pen, and he had brought it for her when he came to fix the light.  
He figured that there was no harm in it—it wasn't like she could write a letter to anyone, and if she wrote something that wasn't supposed to be read… well, it wouldn't be his problem. Martin would take care of it.

"What are ya writin' there?" Joe asked as he worked on replacing the last screw in the light fixture on the ceiling, "Anything interesting?"  
He wasn't surprised when he didn't get a response—Claire had been less and less talkative since her brief encounter with Martin. It was almost as though she was having trouble deciding what to say and what to do. He couldn't blame her; after all, she _had _justbeen kidnapped. And not for the first time, either. It was perfectly normal for her to be disoriented and confused. _Bother this damned kidnapping business_.  
Joe sighed as he came down from the ladder "Well never mind, at least now you'll have better light to write by. "

Claire sat quiet and motionless, the sheet of paper still untouched. It was true; she didn't know what to do. It was as though she had lost control of movement and speech. Her own body had instinctively put her inside a cage, trapping and protecting her at the same time. _Protecting her from what?_ Who knew. She inwardly shuddered at the thought as she briefly glanced at Joe. _He_ knew. Or did he? Was he just like her—another pawn in someone else's game of chess. Either way, neither thought was of any comfort to her.  
"Thanks," She finally managed to murmur as his feet reached the floor.

"Nah, don't mention it" said Joe, brushing it off with a wave of his hand, "It shoulda been done a long time ago anyways." He folded the ladder, gathered his equipment, and headed for the door. "Good luck with Martin and everything—I won't be here tomorrow… or ever." He added as an afterthought. If he came back, it would be long after she had gone.

Claire jerked her head up quickly, "You—you're leaving?" she asked, surprised. It suddenly dawned on her that if he left, that meant she would probably have to deal with Martin—on her own. Being back on the beach was not an option; so between the two of them, she would have much preferred listening to Joe, who never required her to talk back, than to Martin, who, as she had gathered, always expected answers.

"Don't mind Martin," Joe said, as though he knew what she was thinking, "Just stay off his bad side and you'll be fine. And," he continued, "I have to go. Don't really have much choice in the matter."

Her expression was dubious but she said nothing, she just sat and twisted her ring nervously. For a moment she thought about asking him how to get on Martin's good side in the first place—the man hadn't given a good first impression—but she didn't because Joe spoke again.

"He's not that bad. He was just upset because I am not a very good cook—among other things." Joe shrugged as though it didn't matter that much. "Besides, Elaine is here to take care of you. You'll be fine." He hoped that she could not hear the uncertainty in his voice.

"Okay." Claire said quietly, not agreeing, and not disagreeing, either—simply ending the conversation. Joe obviously wanted to leave, and she would not keep him. "Well… 'bye then." She said, almost as though dismissing him. She had nothing more to say, so she turned back to her page and pretended to start writing.

Joe started at her, feeling awkward for a moment, and then walked out the door way saying "'Bye Miss Daisy," as he closed the door. "_Miss Daisy_." He had said it as though it was the most natural thing in the world—he had meant no harm by it, but if he had seen Claire as the door closed…

* * *

"Oh, by the _way_, Elaine" Martin walked into the kitchen and began his speech with an irritatingly superior air, "don't get any ideas into your head about taking Claire out while I'm away. She should stay in this area of the station—either in the dining hall or in her room. We'll only be gone a few days, but still, I can't have her getting away this time like she did with Ethan."

"Martin!" Elaine exclaimed, disgusted, "Stop it!" She dropped the pan she had been washing into the sink and whirled around to face him "If you could hear yourself, Martin, if you could just _hear _yourself…"

"What?" he asked, unaffected and indifferent, "I can hear me just fine, so what are you talking about?" He picked up an apple, rubbed it a little and then bit into it. He knew that he was making her mad, and normally that would have bothered him, but not now, not this time. Elaine was his conscience, and though he would not admit it, not even to himself, he needed to hear what she had to say.

Elaine stared at him for a few moments, astonished. She should have expected it though, knowing him as well as she did. "Well first of all, you make it sound like she's an animal, and you're practically treating her like one, too. Did you ever stop and think about that, Marty?" Her green-brown eyes flashed dangerously as she continued, "Of course you didn't. You never stop and think about anyone else, it's always just an experiment, just another job, _always_ the job. It's always about you, too." Her eyes filled when she finished and she turned away from him. She had wanted to talk to him about this whole project earlier, but he had always avoided it—and there had never really been time to, either. She had been too happy to see him the night before to bring it up. It wasn't supposed to be like this… and _why_ did she have to cry? Why couldn't she just be mad at him?

"Of course it's just a job," Martin said, beginning to feel uncomfortable, "And she'll be fine." Well, if everything went according to plan, she _would_ be fine; but he couldn't guarantee anything… he could try though. "I promise." Elaine's silence was getting to him—he had expected her to scold and yell; he hadn't expected her to cry. She rarely cried in front of him (or anyone, for that matter), and he never knew how to deal with tears. They got to him more than anything else did.

Uneasy silence settled into the room. Martin stared at the half-eaten fruit in his hand, realizing that he had lost his appetite. He quietly threw the remainder in the trash, rinsed his hands and turned back to Elaine. She had stood there silent for what seemed like hours.  
"I'm sorry, Elle…" Martin said, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Elaine shook her head and shrugged him off "No, you're not." She squared her shoulders and went back to the sink. "You're not sorry. But that's fine." Of course, it was _not_ okay, but she didn't know what else to say. "Just go away. Just…" She paused for a moment and then continued firmly, "Claire will still be here when you get back."

The bitter note in her voice ended the conversation. Neither of them was satisfied, and neither of them had any more to say.  
He left, feeling angrier because she was right than guilty because he was wrong. She cried more after he was gone, knowing that she probably hadn't gotten through to him… and maybe she never would.

* * *

The squawking cries of seagulls could be heard clearly through the open window. The gentle summer breeze blew through the screen and played through a beautiful set of golden curls. Claire couldn't have been more than five or six at the time, sitting in her well-furnished bedroom playing with her dolls. She was perfectly content to be alone there— nine-year-old Ava-Lynn was probably off reading somewhere; their mother was working in her office; and only God knew where their father was. Or did he?

Richard Littleton walked into his daughter's room, his footsteps as silent as the carpet allowed them to be. Claire did not notice him until he had already swept her off the floor and was holding her in a tight embrace. "How's my Clairey today?" He asked lightly.

"Daddy, daddy, you're home!" Claire cried, throwing her little arms around his neck.  
He had rarely been home during the day, as far as she could remember. He was always working, always busy with some business deal or other. He was never just home to be home.  
Sure, he was generally a good father, in most respects. He was there for birthday parties and the holidays with presents and other goodies—Claire and her sister were never wanting anything in that regard. They always had clothes to wear, food to eat, and more toys than they cared to count. However, Richard Littleton hadn't ever read a bedtime story. He had not once ever taken his little girls on his lap and told them stories. He had not sung a lullaby since they were in cribs. He was just… busy. To have him here at this time of day was strange, to say the least, but Claire was too young to think of asking him why he was home.

"And you're dressed funny, too." She said when he had put her down.

"Funny?" He asked, "What's so funny about this? I am dressed to spend a day at the beach with all you girls."

"Really?" Her eyes lit up with excitement. "Are you really coming with us?"

"Absolutely," Richard laughed at her enthusiasm, "Let's go, shall we?"

It was a perfect day. They did everything—went boating, had a picnic on the beach, made sand castles and watched the tide take them down; they even made halos with daisy chains when they got back late that afternoon. Who knew Daddy could be so much fun?  
When it was time for bed the girls begged their father to tuck them in—he couldn't say no. He tucked Ava in first, and then Claire.  
"You'll always be my Miss Daisy." He said as he kissed her goodnight.

"But I'm not Miss Daisy" she had protested seriously, with a pout "I'm Claire."

"Did you know that the daisy is my favourite flower?" He asked, just as seriously.

Claire shook her head.

"Well, it is."  
That ended that argument.

Weeks passed. Richard made it a point to spend more time with his family through out the summer and into the fall. In the winter, he was busy again and they saw less and less of him every day. Then one day, just a week before Christmas, he was gone, totally and completely gone. Claire and her sister didn't hear from him again for a very long time, and as far as they knew, neither did their mother.

The first and foremost reason for his disappearance was his discovery of the affair between Lianne and Christian Shephard. Claire was not his daughter at all. The second reason was that he did not believe that he was a good father… or husband. They were better off without him, weren't they? It wasn't like he was home often enough anyway. Admittedly, it was rather selfish of him to leave the way he did, but at the time, he saw no way around it.

Thirteen Christmases came and went. Thirteen birthdays, thirteen summers, thirteen _years _went by and the Littleton girls grew up. There had been no card, presents, or phone calls, as far as they knew. Lianne had kept everything he had ever sent, but she had never shared them with her daughters. Her reasons were selfish, too, and perhaps a little foolish as well. She had always felt that her marriage to Richard had been overly encouraged, maybe even forced, by their parents. After all, a daughter with a child born out of wedlock would have been a disgrace to the entire family. If there was a way to patch things up… well, leave it to her parents to find it.

Family secrets. Aunt Lindsay had found a box of unopened letters and unwrapped packages in the attic one afternoon when Claire was packing. "You should have these." She had said, leaving the box in Claire's room.  
Claire had spent the rest of the afternoon opening every package and reading every card, coming to the realization that her father had not totally abandoned them after all. Still, she had argued over and over, he could have done more and tried harder. She had hated Richard for leaving in the first place, and she blamed her mother for driving him away.

Two days before her twentieth birthday, Claire finally moved into her own apartment. It was a huge step for her, a major victory. Freedom never comes easy, but now that it was here, Claire hoped that she was done with the lies and the hypocrisy, all the family secrets.  
She was free to live her _own_ life now.

Unpacking—the greatest part about moving anywhere is the unpacking and assigning of homes. The plates, cups, and bowls in their cupboards; the books in alphabetical order on the shelf in the corner; a portrait or painting arranged on the wall here and there; curtains on the windows—she loved homemaking and every responsibility that came with it.

Claire was putting the last boxes away one day when the doorbell rang.  
"Bloody hell." She muttered. She wasn't expecting anyone, and Ava would have called if she was coming.  
Lady (her two-year-old cocker spaniel) was yapping excitedly and running round in circles. "Lady, be quiet!" Claire commanded sharply as she pressed the button to unlock the front door while unbolting her own. There was no one at the door when Claire got down there—only a package that was too big for the mailboxes. She glanced at the return name and address as she brought the package inside. It was from none other than Richard Littleton.

"Wonderful," She sighed "absolutely _wonderful_. But don't you think you're just a little late, Daddy? Say, by about thirteen years?"

Claire finally forced herself to open it as she grumbled about useless odds and ends. Did he really think that she even cared about simple trinkets? She skimmed over the card with little interest—she almost didn't notice the apology at the end, and the invitation to dinner. _Dinner_? She didn't want to think about it now. Claire shook her head and laid out the rest of the items on the table—a handsomely bound journal, a book of modern poetry, and a small ring-box. She hesitated a moment before she opened the box and took out the ring. Inscribed on the inside of the silver band, in the most delicate handwriting, were the words: "for Miss Daisy, with love."

It was all she could do to keep herself from throwing it across the room. What she would have said to him if he were here… but he wasn't. And with firm resolution she decided that it was too late. He could have, he _should_ have done something sooner. Did it really take _that_ long for people to change? She didn't think it should have.  
Claire grabbed a pen and furiously scribbled a reply, declining his invitation, and also asking that he never try to contact her again. It had taken her years to get over the fact that he was gone…she wasn't ready to make up for them now.

The journal and the book of poetry went to her sister a few months later. Claire knew she wouldn't use them herself, so they might as well be given to someone who would. Ava liked to read and write almost as much as Claire did--maybe even more.  
The ring was put away and forgotten about until shortly after Thomas left, when she was about three months pregnant. Then she wore it, simply as a reminder that any bond of trust, any kind of relationship, and any confidence, no matter how deep or strong, could be broken by a single devastating mistake. It only took one.

* * *

No one could have known about "Miss Daisy"…. Right? Apparently not. But Claire didn't know that the Others had extensive files and information on each and every one of the passengers who were on Oceanic Flight 815. Who knew what resources they had, and what kind of information they were capable of obtaining?

Pain finally forced Claire to open her eyes. She stared blankly at her fists before she realized that she was clenching them so tightly that her nails had pierced through her skin. Last time that happened she had been dreaming… the only difference this time was that the nightmare was _real_.


End file.
